Who Greenlit This Movie??!

Dinner last night:  Bratwurst and German potato salad.

Len's Recipe of the Month - November 2018

So that's my Thanksgiving plate above with all of it prepared by yours truly. I'm actually the dumb idiot who actually likes to cook for the holidays.

Now don't think you're getting recipes for everything you see.   The herb roasted turkey breast is a recipe from Ina Garten.   Look it up.   The cranberry sauce?  Well, Ocean Spray puts the recipe on the bag.   And the green bean casserole?   There are a variety of takes on that via the Food Network website.

But I will share with you recipes for two of the sides you see.   And, for me, a great meal is all about the sides.

For instance, look at the roasted vegetables.   So darn easy and people will think you slaved for hours.   Get some red bliss potatoes and slice each into two or three pieces.  Then peel an onion and then slice that up.   Finally, get some baby carrots.  The bag variety works fine.   Throw all of this on a baking dish.  Add about a tablespoon of chopped rosemary.   Then a tablespoon of kosher salt.   Pepper to taste.   Liberally drizzle olive oil over the veggies until they are all coated.  

Toss in a 325 degree oven for about 30-40 minutes.   The flavors blend so naturally.   Your guests will be impressed.

They will also be wowed by my stuffing, too.   And that's so easy to do if you use a slow cooker.  Plus if you use a cellophane liner for the crock pot, it's an easy clean-up.

In a pan with some olive oil, saute about a cup of chopped celery and one chopped onion with some minced garlic.   After about five minutes, add about 1 1/2 pounds of ground pork sausage.  Brown that all up and give it a good mix with the other stuff.   

Essentially you're almost done.

Pour the mixture into your slow cooker.   Add a box of stuffing croutons.   Mrs. Cubbison is the best.   To the mixture, add a teaspoon of rosemary, a teaspoon of sage, and a teaspoon of thyme.   Put in about a teaspoon of kosher salt and then pepper to taste.

Because you need liquid for a slow cooker, pour in a cup of chicken broth or stock.  Set it on low for about six hours.

You will be shocked how good it is.   And moist.   

Hey, just because Thanksgiving is past, you can always try these two sides for Christmas.  Or Kwanzaa.

Dinner last night:  Sandwich.

This Date in History - November 28

Happy birthday, Randy Newman.  He loves LA, you know.

1095:  POPE URBAN II APPOINTS BISHOP ADHEMAR OF LE PUY AND COUNT RAYMOND IV OF TOULOUSE TO LEAD THE FIRST CRUSADE TO THE HOLY LAND.

Pope Urban?  Could there also possibly be a Pope Ghetto?

1520:  AFTER NAVIGATING THROUGH A STRAIT AT THE SOUTHERN END OF SOUTH AMERICA, THREE SHIPS UNDER THE COMMAND OF EXPLORER FERDINAND MAGELLAN REACH THE PACIFIC OCEAN, BECOMING THE FIRST EUROPEANS TO SAIL FROM THE ATLANTIC OCEAN TO THE PACIFIC.

And the very first explorers to have a GPS device named after them.

1582:  IN STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND ANNE HATHAWAY PAY A BOND FOR THEIR MARRIAGE LICENSE.

I'm not sure, but I think this may not be the same Anne Hathaway that was in the Princess Diaries.

1729:  NATCHEZ INDIANS MASSACRE 138 FRENCHMEN, 35 FRENCH WOMEN, AND 56 CHILDREN AT FORT ROSOLIE.

For consistency's sake, let's assume the children were French, too.

1814:  THE LONDON TIMES IS FOR THE FIRST TIME PRINTED BY AUTOMATIC, STEAM POWERED PRESSES, SIGNALING THE BEGINNING OF THE AVAILABILITY OF NEWSPAPERS TO A MASS AUDIENCE.

Today, newspapers are still available.  Except there is no longer a mass audience.

1843:  THE KINGDOM OF HAWAII IS OFFICIALLY RECOGNIZED BY THE UNITED KINGDOM AND FRANCE AS AN INDEPENDENT NATION.

First you recognize.  Then you go there on vacation.

1893:  WOMEN VOTE IN A NATIONAL ELECTION FOR THE FIRST TIME DURING THE NEW ZEALAND GENERAL ELECTION.

Those New Zealanders sure are pioneers.

1895:  THE FIRST AMERICAN AUTOMOBILE RACE TAKES PLACES OVER 54 MILES IN ILLINOIS AND THE WINNER COMES IN AT 10 HOURS.

That's five miles per hour.  Just like my dad's old Buick.

1907:  IN HAVERHILL, MASSACHUSETTS, SCRAP METAL DEALER LOUIS B. MAYER OPENS HIS FIRST MOVIE THEATER.

And most of what is playing these days at the movies is barely a cut above scrap metal.

1919:  LADY ASTOR IS ELECTED AS A MEMBER OF THE PARLIAMENT OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.  SHE IS THE FIRST WOMAN TO SIT IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

But probably not the first one to clean the House of Commons.

1923:  ACTRESS GLORIA GRAHAME IS BORN.

Love those crackers.

1925:  THE GRAND OLE OPRY BEGINS BROADCASTING IN NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE.

Yee ha.

1933:  ACTRESS HOPE LANGE IS BORN.

She died in 2003.  So Mrs. Muir then became a ghost.

1942:  IN BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, A FIRE IN THE COCOANUT GROVE NIGHTCLUB KILLS 491 PEOPLE.

Why you always look for the exit signs whenever you are in a public place.

1943:  MUSICIAN RANDY NEWMAN IS BORN.

I put his picture up there and all.  But I really don't have a good Randy Newman joke.  Sorry.

1943:  US PRESIDENT FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT, BRITISH PRIME MINISTER WINSTON CHURCHILL, AND SOVIET LEADER JOSEPH STALIN MEET IN TEHRAN TO DISCUSS WAR STRATEGY.

And complain about their respective wives.

1949:  MUSICIAN PAUL SHAFFER IS BORN.

I prefer Doc Severinsen.  And Rheingold.

1958:  BASEBALL PLAYER DAVE RIGHETTI IS BORN.

I used to like the guy.  Then he became A SF Giant coach, so I hated him.  But then he got fired, so I like him again.

1959:  ACTOR JUDD NELSON IS BORN.

The Breakfast Club opens for business.

1964:  NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL MEMBERS AGREE TO RECOMMEND THAT US PRESIDENT LYNDON B. JOHNSON ADOPT A PLAN FOR ESCALATION OF BOMBING IN NORTH VIETNAM.

Yeah, that's a smart idea.

1972:  THE LAST USE OF A GUILLOTINE IN FRANCE.

A head of the curve.

1976:  ACTRESS ROSALIND RUSSELL DIES.

I'm no longer your Auntie Mame.

1983:  ACTOR CHRISTOPHER GEORGE DIES.

He died young, but did sleep with Lynda Day George.  There is a trade off.

1993:  TV STAR GARRY MOORE DIES.

No longer a secret.

1994:  SERIAL KILLER JEFFREY DAHMER DIES.

Rat bastard.

2010:  ACTOR LESLIE NIELSEN DIES.

And don't call me dead.

2015:  ACTRESS MARJORIE LORD DIES.

Make Room for Dead Mommy.

2016:  TV EXECUTIVE GRANT TINKER DIES.

I once had a 20 minute phone conversation with him.

Dinner last night:  Lasagna from my freezer.

Another Edition of Broadway in LA

This ex-New Yorker and self proclaimed Broadway-phile has to wait patiently for all the new hits and Tony winners to show up in Los Angeles.   Usually, it's a first stop on a national tour and, if I am so inclined, I will seek out the production.

Such was the case with "Dear Evan Hansen."  For two years, it's been the hot ticket on Broadway not named "Hamilton."   It won a passel of Tonys and was generally fawned over by...well...everybody.  The millennial's version of "West Side Story."  Yeah, yeah, yeah.   It's entertaining and cures cancer at the same time.

Now some of my older Broadway pals were a little lukewarm to it all.  I mean, it is geared for a younger demo and does highlight within its plot lots and lots of social media.  But I needed to see for myself.

Well, it shows up at the Ahmanson Theater for six weeks and it is almost immediately sold out.  Obviously, there are lemmings on both coasts.   But I picked a couple of dates and then set a price alert on Stubhub.  When the price of a seat hits $100 dollars or below, I wanted in.   And, as luck would have it, I scored a balcony seat for 95 bucks.   Sweet!

So, how was the show, Len?  Well, at the end of the first act, I was texting friends telling them how surprised I was at my own enjoyment of what I had seen thus far.   The music was actually listenable.   The plot was compelling, although it was much more sitcom-like than I expected.   Hmmm....

And then there was the second act and "Dear Evan Hansen" takes oodles and oodles of uneasy dramatic detours.   Oh, I followed every path and admired the skill of the cast to get me there.  At the end, I stood with the others and joined in the standing ovation which virtually every show now gets as almost a standard.

By the time I had gone the escalator into the Ahmanson parking garage, I had completely forgotten everything that I had just seen.  It was like I had just consumed frozen pizza after a cleansing fast.  It was only momentarily satisfying.   

I realized that the sum of all the parts of "Dear Evan Hansen" is less.   As I reflected all the dramatic turns, I realized that the show was as manipulative as an episode of "This Is Us."  The goal is to make the audience cry as much as their tear ducts could handle.

Except I didn't.  

That said, I was heartened to see a musical that had so many teenagers in the audience.   Perhaps they were the target demo.  Along with their parents who are probably trying to figure out how to get their kids off Twitter.  For that reason alone, "Dear Evan Hansen" is worth the Stubhub price alert dollars I paid.   

The only trouble is that you can't hum that weeks after the show.

Dinner last night:  Chopped salad.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - November 26, 2018

Even in so-called civilized England, there have been some real shopping riots over the past several years.  Oh, and by the way, there's a reason it's called "Black Friday."

Dinner last night:  More Thanksgiving leftovers.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - A Thanksgiving Leftover

Here's the odd irony of it all.  See the photo of the meal above?  I cooked it all from scratch myself this past Thanksgiving.   Back when I was a kid, who would have ever expected that to happen.   In those days, there were others manning the kitchen.

The smell of frying onions would wake me up around 8AM.  I was savoring a breakfast bowl of Rice Krispies and already my stomach was churning with this bizarre odor in the early morning.  It could mean only one thing.

It was Thanksgiving and Grandma was downstairs making the stuffing.

Our family Thanksgiving dinners were probably no different than yours.  Certainly not as warm and fuzzy as magazine ads would lead you to imagine.  Loving family members, heads bowed in grace, thanking the Lord for the food they were about to partake.  Good feelings all around.

Nah.  Maybe you heard the following, too.

"You didn't make turnips this year?  What's wrong with you?"

"The white meat is way too dry.  Did you bother to baste it?"

"I'm not sitting next to him/her unless they apologize."

Oh, yeah.  Norman Rockwell is a myth.

Our gatherings were frequently held at our house.  Grandma and my mother would co-op the cooking together as other ends of our family would come to call and dine around Grandma's big dining room table downstairs.  The fact that my mom and her mother-in-law were working together was news worth of Ripley's Believe It or Not.  Rarely on the same page, they were barely in the same book when it came to holiday cooking. 

I have an ultra-vivid memory of one such skirmish.  Mom and Grandma had such a dust-up that, when my grandmother turned her back, my mother picked up one of those Pillsbury biscuit cans and pretended to take a swing at her.  A tough vision for a seven-year-old.

"Oh, my God.  Mommy's gonna bash Grandma in the skull."

Or something like that.

I'd try to stay out of the line of fire by sequestering myself in front of the television and watching Bullwinkle float down Broadway.  Eventually, the other relatives would show up and even the arrival of Santa Claus at the end of the parade couldn't upstage that year's family drama.

"Stop telling me how to raise my kids."

"I will if you stop telling me how to raise my kids."

"If you've got gas, please go in the other room."

"Belch!"

And that's before dinner.

On our table were the usual staples.  Turnips and sweet potatoes, which I could never tell apart.  Green beans, which were usually fresh.  Mashed potatoes, which were never completely a unanimous favorite.

"I like them creamy."

"They're too lumpy."

"They're too dry."

"Did you forget the butter??"

And, amid all the fresh food, there was my favorite Thanksgiving dish.  Cranberry sauce.  Still is.  These days, I'm enjoying a homemade concoction of this fruit, usually mixed with oranges and cherries.  But it didn't get that fancy years ago.  Nope, my family always opted for the can.

The Ocean Spray can.

The one you opened with a can opener and the cranberry sauce slid out in one gloppy mold.  Just like we used to slip the dog food out of the Ken-L-Ration can.  With the cranberries, they didn't even bother to use a knife to slice it.  Somebody would simply take the metal lid and use that to cut up the mold.  If Martha Stewart had witnessed this scene, she would have used that same metal lid to slit her wrists.

But, to me, this was cranberry sauce and I loved it nonetheless.  Except, of course, when there was a much publicized recall of Ocean Spray Jellied Cranberries one Thanksgiving.  Seems there was some poison embedded or perhaps a soupcon of botulism.  Whatever the case, I was petrified.  The moratorium was quickly called off within a month, but that didn't placate me in the least. 

I would pass on cranberries for the next five years.  I was convinced that there was still one can out there that had been ignored by the inspectors.  And the way my grandmother used to buy in bulk, I was sure that food poisoning and/or death was no doubt lurking right around the corner of Grandma's pantry.

There was always plenty of food on our table.  One Thanksgiving, as we dined on our respective second helpings, we heard the faint sound of chewing in the kitchen.  My beagle Tuffy had hopped up on the table and was helping herself to anything she could sniff out.  Nobody took home leftovers that year.

And, of course, the most popular after dinner activity in our house was undoubtedly no different than in any American home.  From various corners of the house, we could hear the same refrain.

"ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz......."

Dinner last night:  Pork lo mein from Century Dragon.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - November 2018

Chucky turns 30 this month!!

Dinner last night:  Thanksgiving leftovers.

Your Annual Black Friday Gift Guide From Len Speaks

Like clockwork, we're back.   Every year, this blog provides you with some classic gift ideas for the holidays.   Let me save you the wear and tear of fighting the Black Friday crowds.   I'm sure you all have people who would simply love finding one of these babies underneath their Christmas tree.  You're welcome

 Because everything is better with bacon.  Even a wallet.

 Except they don't tell you what part of the boyfriend grows the biggest.

 This just screams for a visit from the fire department at 3 in the morning.

 You won't want to shake hands with this guy.

 That has to be like a 75D.

 If you're that fucking lazy, you might as well drop the dog or cat into the river.

 Be the one with ink in your kindergarten class.

 It's like a Yuletide version of "Alien."

 Just don't lean forward.

 Because it's always fun when a pig is disemboweled.

Again...how fucking lazy can you get???

The green actually looks better than the gray he's been sporting of late.

Dinner last night:  Thanksgiving dinner - herb roasted turkey breast, stuffing, roasted vegetables, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce.

The Thanksgiving Day Tradition on This Blog

Every Turkey day, I devote this blog to another rendition of "Turkey Lurkey Time" from the Bacharach-David musical "Promises, Promises."   This year, we get it courtesy of the Indianapolis Men's Chorus...an early start to a "gay" holiday season.

Enjoy your meal today.

Dinner last night:  Chopped salad.

This Date in History - November 21

Happy birthday, Nicollette Sheridan.  As if I need an excuse to post a picture of you. 

November 21 is apparently a relative day...as birth dates go.  You will see.  But, first...

164 BC:  JUDA MACCABAEUS, SON OF MATTATHIAS OF THE HASMONEAN FAMILY, RESTORES THE TEMPLE OF JERUSALEM.  THIS EVENT IS COMMEMORATED EACH YEAR BY THE FESTIVAL OF HANUKKAH.

So, now we know how that started.  Where's my dreidel?

235:  POPE ANTERUS SUCCEEDS PONTIAN AS THE NINETEENTH POPE.

Boy, those Pope names got a lot easier later on.  Leo, John, Paul...Ringo?

1620:  PLYMOUTH COLONY SETTLERS SIGN THE MAYFLOWER COMPACT.

Pass the cranberries.

1789:  NORTH CAROLINA RATIFIES THE UNITED STATES CONSTITUTION AND IS ADMITTED AS THE 12TH US STATE.

Thank goodness.  Now Mayberry is part of our nation.

1861:  CONFEDERATE PRESIDENT JEFFERSON DAVIS APPOINTS JUDAH BENJAMIN SECRETARY OF WAR.

Hey, Judah.

1877:  THOMAS EDISON ANNOUNCES HIS INVENTION OF THE PHONOGRAPH, A MACHINE THAT CAN RECORD AND PLAY SOUND.

Edison and I share the same birth date.  Just sayin'.

1905:  ALBERT EINSTEIN'S PAPER, "DOES THE INERTIA OF A BODY DEPEND UPON ITS ENERGY CONTENT?" IS PUBLISHED AND LEADS TO THE MASS-ENERGY EQUIVALENCE OF E=MC2.

I know he was a genius and everything.  But he sure sounds like a dullard at a dinner party.

1916:  A MINE EXPLODES AND SINKS HMHS BRITANNIC IN THE AEGEAN SEA, KILLING 30 PEOPLE.

Hey, I remember this game.  You sunk my battleship!

1920:  BASEBALL STAR STAN MUSIAL IS BORN.

Stan the Man!

1920:  BLOODY SUNDAY IN DUBLIN, IRELAND DURING THE IRISH WAR OF INDEPENDENCE.  THIRTY PEOPLE ARE KILLED.

But no bottles were broken.

1922:  REBECCA LATIMER FELTON OF GEORGIA TAKES THE OATH OF OFFICE, BECOMING THE FIRST FEMALE US SENATOR. 

Back then, they were calling it "Senatoress."

1934:  ACTOR LAURENCE LUCKINBILL IS BORN.

And here come the relative birthdays.  Lucie Arnaz's husband.

1937:  ACTRESS MARLO THOMAS IS BORN.

Phil Donahue's wife.  Danny Thomas' daughter.

1941:  ACTRESS JULIET MILLS IS BORN.

Hayley's sister.  John's daughter.

1942:  THE COMPLETION OF THE ALASKA HIGHWAY IS CELEBRATED.

You can see Russia from it.

1944:  BASKETBALL STAR EARL MONROE IS BORN.

Marilyn's brother.  Okay, not.

1945:  ACTRESS GOLDIE HAWN IS BORN.

Kurt Russell's...   Oh, wait, they still haven't gotten married.

1945:  HUMORIST ROBERT BENCHLEY DIES.

Now called Robert Cryptley.

1952:  SINGER LORNA LUFT IS BORN.

Sid Luft's daughter.  And the mother was somebody, too.

1959:  AMERICAN DISC JOCKEY ALAN FREED, WHO HAD POPULARIZED THE TERM "ROCK AND ROLL," IS FIRED FROM WABC-AM FOR REFUSING TO DENY ALLEGATIONS OF PAYOLA.

Rocked and really rolled.

1959:  BOXER MAX BAER DIES.

Jethro's dad.

1963:  ACTRESS NICOLLETTE SHERIDAN IS BORN.

Telly Savalas' stepdaughter.

1963:  PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY FLIES TO TEXAS FOR A CAMPAIGN TRIP.

I've got this weird feeling this is not a good idea.

1964:  THE VERRAZANO-NARROWS BRIDGE OPENS TO TRAFFIC.

Good, because, otherwise, those marathoners would have to learn how to swim.

1967:  TALKING ABOUT THE VIETNAM WAR, GENERAL WILLIAM WESTMORELAND SAYS "I AM ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT, WHEREAS IN 1965, THE ENEMY WAS WINNING, TODAY HE IS CERTAINLY LOSING."

What war is he watching?

1969:  BASEBALL STAR KEN GRIFFEY JR. IS BORN.

He had a famous dad, but the name escapes me.

1974:  RADIO PERSONALITY JOHN GAMBLING DIES.

No longer rambling.

1980:  A DEADLY FIRE BREAKS OUT AT THE MGM GRAND HOTEL.  87 PEOPLE ARE KILLED AND MORE THAN 650 ARE INJURED.

Talk about coming up craps.

1981:  TV ANNOUNCER HARRY VON ZELL DIES.

And, now, George and Gracie....

1986:  COMEDIAN JERRY COLONNA DIES.

Who got all those unopened jar of moustache wax?

1986:  NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL MEMBER OLIVER NORTH AND HIS SECRETARY START TO SHRED DOCUMENTS IMPLICATING THEM ON THE SALE OF WEAPONS TO IRAN. 

A great tie-in promotion for Office Depot.

1988:  BASEBALL STAR CARL HUBBELL DIES.

I love his Explorer.

1993:  ACTOR BILL BIXBY DIES.

The Funeral of Eddie's Father.

2002:  NATO INVITES BULGARIA, ESTONIA, LATVIA, LITHUANIA, ROMANIA, SLOVAKIA, AND SLOVENIA TO BECOME MEMBERS.

They must have lowered the annual dues.

2017:  SINGER DAVID CASSIDY DIES.

A partridge in a pine box.

Dinner last night:  Leftover sausage and rice.

Remember That Time I Had to Get a Mammogram

Well, I do.   It was just last week.   You probably don't recall because I didn't share this news with many people.  Only two folks knew that I was going through this.   Partly because of embarrassment.   Partly because of fear.   Partly because of disbelief.

Thanks to this series of developments, I now have a new appreciation of what women go through.   I sympathize.   And, for obvious physical reasons, my test was certainly not as rigorous as it would be for a female.   I guess I can cross this experience off my bucket list.

So how does this all start?   Pages and years flip off the calendar.   We go back to 1995 and I'm still living in New York.   A routine examination by my then-internist reveals I've got a below-the-skin cyst right under the right...ahem...nipple.  The decision was made to remove it surgically.   As a result, this was the very first time I ever went under with anesthesia.   

No fuss, no muss.  The scar healed.   Off we go.

Flashing forward to 2018.  I'm at the gym with my trainer.  I am lying on my stomach on the massage table as he is working on my back.  I feel like my upper chest is on top of a small marble.  I feel a little lump underneath the right...ahem...nipple.   Hmmm.   It wasn't particularly hard, but it was noticeable.   Except, by the time I got home, it disappeared.   Presto change-o.

And then it came back.  And then it disappeared.   And then it came back.  And then it disappeared.  After about a week of this nifty party trick, I decided to seek medical counsel.

Of course, my first choice is the one I usually advise people against.  Using Google.

As per usual, typing your symptoms into any search engine is deadly. Whatever it is that you input, the response will be "you have cancer and you will be dead in a week."  My mistake.

I called my crackerjack LA internist and got his equally crackerjack assistant. When I told her what was going on, it was like she had been spying over my shoulder.

"You didn't Google this, did you?"

Um, yeah.

I was invited in the next day for a session with my doctor.  He is as thorough as can be and I first shared with him the surgery from 1995.

"You told me about that fifteen years ago when we first connected."

Oh.

But, to understand it all, he needed to examine me.  Both sides.   With both hands.   I'm not sure but I think he was at second base.   I forget.  Those groping barometers change over time.

Well, he assured me that the cancer odds were even greater than those for me to hit the lotto.   It could be scar tissue.   Or something forming due to low testosterone.   Or a myriad of other reasons.   He told me that, in 15 years of practice, he's seen this about twenty times which averages to more than once a year.   I told him I've been diligent about following up on male-centric ailments.   I ask if I have to expand my scope.

Well, to check on the testosterone theory, he orders a blood test.

"And, just to be sure, you probably need an X-ray."

Oh.   I asked for details.  As he prattled on, I stopped him.  Wait.  What you're describing is a mammogram.

"Well, yes."

Two days later, I had an appointment at the Margie Petersen Breast Center of St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica.   While I felt there were female eyes all descending upon me, they probably didn't give a shit about the lone guy within three miles in a waiting room where there certainly weren't any Sports Illustrateds in the magazine racks.

Luckily, I got called in by my technician before I had a chance to crawl into a fetal position underneath the coffee table.

Unluckily, my technician reminded me of my elementary school nurse.   Or one of my mom's friends at the PTA.  Translation: she was likely one of the more senior members at the staff of the Margie Petersen Breast Center.

"Take off your shirt please."

Yes, Ma'am.

For some reason, she applied some pink tape underneath my right...ahem...nipple.  It looked like I had fallen into a wad of bubble gum at the beach.  Then she moved me over to the machine shown above.  And then hilarity really ensued.

Now while I don't think my upper body will ever be confused with that of Ryan Gosling's, but eight years of training has resulted in some more muscles and toning in my upper chest.   Yet she had to get something onto that machine for pictures.  She started squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.  Hello?  How much juice do you want to get from this lemon?

"Is this area tender?"

Well, it is now that your monkey wrench-like hands have been mangling me for the past five minutes.

At last, she was done and I made a mental note to remember this moment while saying "grace" at my Thanksgiving dinner.

"You can put your shirt back on."

She left to go get my x-rays and also to probably wrestle an alligator in the hallway.  Ten minutes later, she was back with a doctor who was even older than the technician.  Jeez, there's going to be one retirement luncheon after another here at the Margie Petersen Breast Center.

"Can you take your shirt off please?"

Wow, even male prostitutes get a longer coffee break.

The doctor did her own share of groping and squeezing.   Meanwhile, the bubble gum tape was starting to pull on my chest hairs.   I realized that taking that off at home would probably suck up five hours of my day.

"Well, we see nothing there.  But we might want to schedule an ultrasound."

Here we go, I thought.   The money meter gets turned on.  Ka-ching, ka-ching.

I told the kindly folks to send all the results over to my doctor.   If he thinks I need an ultrasound, it's his call.

One day later, he called.

"You don't need an ultrasound."

Phew.   

I asked for the official diagnosis of it all.   Well, it's probably some scar tissue from the previous surgery.   Or something else.   It's not serious.

I'll take the good news.   And then smiled.   Not only can I share an experience with some of my female pals, I probably would get a nifty blog entry out of it all.

Um, see above.

At the same time, the silliness I went through is in no way meant to demean the seriousness of this deadly disease.   I know women who have faced the battle and won.  I know women who faced the battle and ultimately lost.  After last week, I made a note to make another contribution to Susan G. Koman.

I guess the lesson is simple.  If you feel something, say something.   Heck, even I did.

Dinner last night:  Chicken sausage, rice, and broccoli.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - November 19, 2018

Cooking turkey this week?  Try some mayonnaise.

Dinner last night:  Tasty appetizers at the birthday party of good friend Connie at R/10 Social House in Redondo Beach.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Thanksgiving Eating

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, let's talk food.  Actually, when I was a kid, I could talk food all year long.  No need to wait for the holiday.

I go back to photos from when I was five or six.  What do I see?

A fat kid.

I look at snapshots from when I was twelve or thirteen.  What do I see?

A fat kid.

It wasn't until my senior year in high school that I did something about all of this.  And, frankly, despite what former First Lady Michelle Obama will tell you, my weighty issues were not a result of a variety of external factors. 

Nope, it wasn't economic.  My folks didn't make a ton of money, but they still managed to put decent food on the table.

Nope, it wasn't because my parents weren't home a lot.  Once I hit the age of eight, both of them worked at night.  I ate dinner with my grandmother.  She also didn't have a ton of money, but she managed to put decent food on the table.  Okay, using Campbell's Condensed Tomato Soup as spaghetti sauce was a lousy choice.  But, still, most of it was edible.

Yep, I was a fat kid because I was destined to be fat.  I had a metabolism that worked slower than Uncle Joe at Petticoat Junction.  And, living in the sometimes-frozen Northeast, there are several whole months in the winter where you can't go out and play.  The only opportunity to burn calories is by unwrapping the Hostess Twinkies.

When I would ask my mother about the tonnage that was uniquely me, she provided an answer that totally removed the burden of responsibility from my ever-broadening shoulders.

"You're just big-boned."

Now what the hell does that mean?

My parents took a philosophical approach to their tubby child.  Both told me that this would be something I would grow out of.  And, of course, they always provided the other disclaimer designed to absolve me of all worries.

"Look around.  You're not the only one."

Okay, I looked around and I was one of the only ones.  True, there were some friends who had some pounds on them.  Others at school or "up the block" had bodies where you could count the ribs like the keys on a xylophone.  Actually, most of them were built like greyhounds.  And had the athletic prowess that came with svelte bodies.

Ah, the annual dread of any fat kid.  The twice-a-year physical education stunts we each at perform courtesy of the President's Council on Physical Fitness.  Most of my friends looked forward to these exercises.  I kept touching my forehead and praying for a fever that would take me out of school for a month or two.

The 50 Yard Dash.  Run as fast as you can from one spot to another in the gym.  And the slowest time in school history goes to....

Me.

The 600 Yard Dash.  Six laps around the Grimes School Playground as if somebody actually did do such a precise measurement.  How do we know 600 yards equals six laps?  Maybe it's only five.  Anyway, this was a complete endurance test and I still think I never finished the last one.  Of course, the slowest time in school history goes to...

Me.

The Shuttle Run.  Run down a lane.  Pick up an eraser.  Run back with the eraser.  Put it down.  Pick up another eraser.  Run back.  Put it down.

What the hell does this prove anyway? 

As for me, I couldn't do it all in one fluid motion.  It was more like...

Run down a lane.  Stop.  Bend over.  Pick up an eraser.  Run back with the eraser.  Stop.  Bend over.  Pick up another eraser.  Run back.  Stop.  Bend over.  Put it down.

By the time I was finished with a Shuttle Run, the Council on Physical Fitness was now being supervised by a completely different President.

Still, my mom and dad remained stoic on it all.

"You will have your time."

Yes, but when?

Meanwhile, I was the slowest and most uncoordinated kid in the neighborhood and school.  Last one always picked for a team.  Oh, yeah, him. 

You would think this torture would have moved me into adopting my own actions to combat this heavy burden?

Nah.

I suppose that, with all the healthy meals I was getting, the real culprit at large here was the famous in-between snacks.  Yes, there were some.  A lot.

For a while, my best neighborhood buddy Leo and I made it a point to take a stroll over to Charlie's Delicatessen.  The walk was good exercise that was likely negated by our purchase of Yodels, Ring Dings, or those fruit pies that have about 2,000 calories each.  While Leo also sported a few extra ounces as well, he never seemed to be deterred when it came to after-school sports.  He could run and jump.  Me?  I could huff and puff.

Thinking back on it all, the at-home meals, while reasonably healthy, could have come with more stringent portion controls.  PS, there were none. I'd often clean my plate and then get it piled up a second time. 

"You want more?"

Of course.

So, there was always an extra slice of pork roast, another scoop of mashed potatoes, or another hunk of rhubarb pie.  As I got into high school, this cute ittle habit got a bit more disdain from my usually accommodating parents, especially from Dad.

"What time does the balloon take off?"

Now my plus size wasn't endearing, it was downright ugly.  And unhealthy.

The cow tipping point came in senior year of high school.  On the very first gym class of the year, my right knee gave out and started a lifetime of hobbles for me.  With me on the Autumn disabled list, the little activity and exercise I usually endured had dwindled down to zero.  I would come home from school, plant myself in front of the television, and open the wrapper of something.  And then something else.  And then something else.

By December, I would scrape both the walls on both sides of any hallway. 

I'm not sure what propelled me to venture onto a diet.  At the time, there was this doctor Dr. Irwin Stillman schlepping from one talk show to another hawking his water diet.  Of course, since he was on television a lot, I got to see him a lot. 

Hmmmm?  Drink eight glasses of water a day?  I can do that.

Hmmmm?  And watch your portions of food?   Can I do that?

As soon as January 1 passed, I announced my plans to flush out my system.  And pretty much have to hit the bathroom between every single class of my school day.  I dictated to my parents what I would need to achieve my goal of losing fifty pounds.  Low calorie this.  Sugar free that.  To their credit, they got behind me.  And, frankly, if they were behind me at this point, you really couldn't see them.

Rim shot.

Along with the Stillman Diet, I started to exercise.  Every night at 7PM for thirty minutes, I would close the door to my room and do as many calistenics as I could come up with.  Sit-ups, push-ups, twists, turns.  I had no clue what I was doing, but it sounded and felt right.

By April, I had lost it all. 

After a lifetime struggle, I had conquered my weight.  For now.  I assumed athletic prowess came with this as part of the deal.

I took two empty soda cans down to the driveway and placed them at opposite ends.  It had been years since I attempted that damn Shuttle Run.  But now?  I had to see.  Can I finally do it right?

I ran down the driveway.

Stopped.

Bent over.

Picked up the can.

Ran back.

Stopped.

Bent over.

Put the can down.

Picked up the other can.

Ran back.

Stopped.

Bent over.

Put the other can down.

Okay, so it still took me the same amount of time.  But I noticed one thing.

I was still breathing.

Yes, it's been a lifelong struggle.  Watching what I eat.   Going up.  Going down.  Always making sure there's some sort of daily exercise.   Now I work with a trainer twice a week.  Right now, I probably have the best muscle tone in my life.  Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror after a shower, what is that I see?  My God, I have an ab.  I'm not exactly Channing Tatum, but there is one there.

But, still.  It's a struggle.  If I'm over your house for dinner and you ask me the fated question.

"You want some more?"

I probably won't refuse.  Just to be polite.

Dinner last night:  Sausage and olive pizza from Maria's.